The Tainted Promise
by AshLillymon
Summary: When Trowa dies suddenly, he promises Quatre that he will not leave him. What happens after is quite unexpected... (No real pairings, violence warning)
1. Chapter I Semiprologue

AN: I don't own Gundam Wing. I wish I did, but I don't. Warnings - violence, harrowing There aren't meant to be any pairings, but if you wish to imagine things in another way, feel free. This chapter is quite short, please enjoy anyway!  
  
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The Tainted Promise  
  
Chapter 1 - Semi-Prologue  
  
"The day is imprinted on my memory forever. I know it's still quite soon after the event, but the memory will haunt me no matter what I do. How could anybody forget such a thing like that? Especially when they're reminded of it every day of their lives?  
  
"The weather was good, as it always is this time of year. I've never liked the idea of pathetic fallacy, but it would have fitted perfectly. The hotel grounds were huge, there were thousands of ways whoever it was could have gained entry. We know it wasn't a hotel guest as the security department are strict on what guests have with them. I suppose it could have been one of the workers there, but I severely doubt it. We'd just come back from a visit to the nearby town, the two of us. It was only short walk from the where the limo had to drop us off to the front door, but it was long enough for whoever to accomplish his task. I...I try to speak of this impartially, but it's difficult - especially when I feel so strongly about it. Anyway, before either of us knew what was going on, it happened.  
  
"Out of nowhere, a bullet sped past, hitting my best friend right in his stomach. He died right there, by the stone sphere of the small rock garden in front of the guest entrance. It wasn't that quick, but he was bleeding very badly and there wasn't anything myself, or anyone could have done. The best we could do...was say our goodbyes. 'Don't leave me, Trowa,' I cried, my tears dripping onto his chest. He looked at me in a way, as if to reprimand me for being naive. I knew there was no way he could stay with us, not like I meant. 'Please...' I repeated, more tears flowing thicker and faster, 'don't leave me, I couldn't go on! Oh, Trowa...' Then, he looked up, right into my eyes and said one thing. 'I promise I'm not going to leave you, Quatre. Goodbye.' I didn't want to have to say goodbye, to admit we were parting, but I had to say goodbye. It stuck in my throat quite a bit, but I managed to choke it out. He then spoke his last words. 'Goodbye is not forever.' Such a noble thing to say. 'Goodbye is not forever.' The last words of Trowa Barton, at four o'clock in the afternoon, on the forecourt of the Maison Grande Hotel. 'Goodbye is not forever.'  
  
"I was deeply saddened. There was no way I could be anyway else. I had lost my best friend, just like that. It was very sudden. My best friend had been taken, had his life cut short. He only lived to be sixteen years old. Just sixteen. I've often asked myself - why him? Why would anyone want him? Why wasn't it me?  
  
"For the next four days, I was still at the hotel. Everyday, at the same time, I visited the place where he passed on. Four o'clock. That deathly hour. But I never expected what waited for me each day.  
  
"As I approached the spot, I was sure that I felt something knock me, on the back. I turned around, and saw nothing. I didn't think anything of it, but then something knocked me to the ground. I'm saying 'something', because no-one was around. I got up with my arm raised to protect my face. Something knocked my arm away, and then something that felt like a boot hit me on the chin. That forced me into a semi-consciousness. Although I could have easily been deceived in that state, I know I'm not mistaken. I felt a presence...his presence. I'm sure it was him - the spirit of Trowa Barton. I don't know why he's doing this but I know it's him.  
  
"Even now I've left the hotel, the presence still haunts me, at the same time each day. Four o'clock. It...beats me into submission, but I don't really fight it. How can I fight the spirit of my best friend? It doesn't last very long, never more than ten minutes - the time it took from when the bullet hit until when his heart finally stopped beating.  
  
"About a week after that, I heard that Relena was going on holiday there. I begged her to forgive me for going at the same time. Although she was quite willing to let me, she tried to her best to dissuade me from going. She told me to forget it - move on with my life. I haven't told her about these attacks. I didn't feel I could speak to anyone about it - this was far too strange to explain anyway. There was no-one I knew who I thought would actually believe me.  
  
"So, I returned to my routine of coming back to the spot at the time. Although I hate these attacks and I desperately want them to stop, I enjoyed this rendezvous with the spirit. I guess in a way, I'd rather feel he hasn't left, no matter what that costs. The place where he died - by the stone sphere - that's the only place that I can feel his presence. Well, I feel the presence every day at that time, but only at that same spot can I feel that it's him. Only once, he spoke to me. The force of one of his blows had managed to knock me out cold. Lying there, in a strange state, he appeared to me. I won't forget what the spectre said, either. That's etched into my memory as deeply as the day of his death is. He told me, 'I knew you couldn't live without me - you're far too defenseless.'  
  
"I have to say, those words hurt from a best friend - especially in the tone of voice they were given. It wasn't the usual way he'd speak to me when he was alive. He wouldn't even phrase it that way when he was here. We'd spent so much time together. I could imagine things that he'd be likely to do. However, I'd never have imagined that. I could imagine him telling me 'Quatre, I think you need to toughen yourself up,' but I can't think of him saying anything like that. At least, not to me. Not to his best friend."  
  
At this point, the blonde boy broke into full blown tears. Not just the small rivers that had trickled their way down his cheeks before, but heavier. The only other person in the room, a woman in her thirties, got up from her armchair and strolled over to the boy. She handed him a tissue from a box on the coffee table, which he took and wiped away the tears with.  
  
"And you say this was only a month ago?" Her voice was compassionate and understanding as she sat back down in the armchair.  
  
"Yes," he looked up at her, placing the half wet tissue onto the coffee table, "one month exactly on this coming Saturday." The Arabian lifted one of the cups of tea from its saucer and sipped from it. He looked at her, begging for her help.  
  
"My dear Master Winner," the woman replied, a slight tone of condemnation in her voice, "I am no private detective. I am a medium, you know that. I do not understand what you feel I can do."  
  
Quatre got up and walked to the large window at the end of the room. "I need to know why he's doing this - why he's hurting his best friend. And...I need this to stop"  
  
She rose and joined him. "I can do little more than contact the spirit world. Then, I shall have to refer you on." She handed a fresh tissue to the boy.  
  
"I thank you, Ms DePlume. You've been kind enough already, to listen to my story." There was a sad melt in his eyes that told the psychic that the boy, whom she hardly knew, really did need her help. She felt thankful that she could do something.  
  
Lowering the volume of her voice, she whispered to him, "Is there anything else I should know?"  
  
"Yes," came his whispered reply. "Keep this as secret as possible - we're Gundam pilots. I don't know how that could help you, but I feel it's important for you to understand that."  
  
To be continued... --**--**--  
  
AN: Do you like it? Please review, but be gentle, this is my first real fic! Criticism will be accepted, flames extinguished. It may be taking a while to get going, but it heats up later. There will be more soon!  
  
AshLillymon 


	2. Chapter II

AN: I don't own Gundam Wing. I wish I did, but I don't. Warnings - violence, harrowing, slight angst, scary scene(s)? Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I hope you like this chapter, too! Sorry I took so long getting this chapter posted. There aren't meant to be any pairings, but if you wish to imagine things in another way, feel free.  
  
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The Tainted Promise  
  
Chapter 2  
  
After arranging to meet with the psychic again, Heero, who had waited in the adjacent room, drove Quatre to the apartment they were renting. They sat in silence for most of the journey, until Heero had to stop the car at a traffic light.  
  
"Well," he said, not turning to look at his comrade, "did she help you?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Quatre looked down at his feet, "but I certainly feel better doing something." The light turned green and Heero pushed his foot down onto the accelerator. "Thanks." He brought his head up in order to look at his friend.  
  
"What for?" Heero returned Quatre's gaze, but his voice remained emotionless.  
  
"For helping me with this. I don't know as I could get through it without you." He returned to staring at the floor.  
  
"The least I could do." There was a pause, as he changed gear. "I know how much Trowa meant to you, Quatre. And somehow I feel as if I'm helping him, too." That ended their conversation. Heero drove blankly on, while the blonde sat solemnly, looking at his feet, sorrow ever present in his blue eyes. He didn't feel much like talking.  
  
--**--**--  
  
Later that day, Quatre sat on his bed, reading a novel. The blonde Arabian was blissfully unaware of the time. Coming into the room, Heero checked his watch while the door still blocked him from his friend's view. Five to four. He slowly closed the door. Upon seeing how peacefully the small boy read, Heero decided it was for the best not to alert him of the approaching time. He ran his hand through his short brown hair and sat at the wooden table. Although he opened his laptop, he kept a close eye on Quatre as the fateful hour drew near.  
  
As if on cue, at four o'clock, the book he was reading was snatched from Quatre's hands and flung to the floor. A startled cry came from Quatre's mouth. Something grabbed his lower arm tightly and an invisible force punched him in the jaw. Tears glistened in the sparkling blue eyes. Heero sprang up to defend his ally. Unsure quite how to help, he shielded Quatre, hoping to block any further blows. The spirit levered the two boys apart, pushing Quatre flat on the bed and Heero down to the floor. The ballpoint pen on the writing desk picked itself up and began to pen a note. Heero and Quatre sat up. After finishing writing, the piece of paper dropped itself to the floor, face up, and the two pilots read the message. 'Stay out of this, Heero, or else.' It had been quickly scrawled but the handwriting was unmistakable - it was Trowa's. The force then pushed Quatre firmly against the wall behind the bed and the young Arabian hit his head. Finally, the welling tears ran down the blonde's cheeks. "Please, stop," Quatre cried. The spirit then slapped him on one cheek then the other and apparently left. The slaps stung with the wet from his tears. He continued to cry, not moving from the spot.  
  
Heero stood up, placing the piece of paper back on the writing desk. "Is it gone?"  
  
"He's gone."  
  
"You ok?" Heero walked over to the bed and looked hard at his friend. He received no reply. "Hey," Heero knelt down and placed his hand under Quatre's chin, raising his face to look at him, "you ok?"  
  
"I...I think so," came the shaky reply. Tears still streaked down his face, though he was no longer truly crying. Heero looked around the room. He silently returned Quatre's book to him, and noticed the small patch of blood on the wall that the force had pushed the boy against.  
  
"You're bleeding," he observed, rubbing at the patch until it came off, "you sure you're ok?" He stared hard yet amicably at his friend, imploring him to give the full picture.  
  
"I think I'm getting a headache," the blonde confessed. He rubbed the cover of the book with his thumb. The Japanese pilot got up and closed his laptop. The soft click of the plastic catch seemed to bring Quatre out of a semi-daydream. He looked up at what the other boy was doing. Next, Heero went to the sink and wet an amount of toilet paper. He gave the wad to Quatre.  
  
"Keep that there until the bleeding stops," he instructed, "I'm going to the store. I won't be long. I'm gonna get some aspirin and food. Lie down. Sleep if you will. You call me immediately if it starts to swell, ok?" He waited for a reply.  
  
"Sure." Quatre lay down as Heero left the room. He relaxed, knowing that the Japanese pilot would be true to his word.  
  
--**--**--  
  
The store was not far from the apartment, so Heero walked the distance. This gave him chance to ponder the situation. It certainly wasn't remotely like a run-of-the-mill mission. All he knew was that he had to help, but how? What or who were they fighting? He hadn't even sensed Trowa's presence like Quatre could. Yet not even Quatre understood what was happening. The whole situation was incomprehensible - far beyond the bounds of normal happenings. Heero doubted that there had ever been an incidence like it in history. Was there anyone who could help? He had given his friend the contacts for the medium, Madame DePlume, but could she really help? Heero took a step back from these thoughts, realizing how bleak they were. Perhaps he looked into this too much. Maybe it was better to regard this on a more simple level, at least for now.  
  
He examined the facts first. Trowa was dead - shot and killed. In his dying breaths, he promised Quatre that he'd never leave him. Now there were these attacks on Quatre, at the same time every day, during which time Quatre claimed he felt Trowa's presence. The only piece of hard evidence in all of it was the note in the Latin pilot's handwriting. That was unmistakable.  
  
His thoughts turned to Quatre. As if grieving for his friend wasn't enough, he had to deal with these attacks. Right now, he needed protection, but how were you supposed to protect a person from a something that no one can see and no one knows what it is? Heero had never faced Trowa in hand to hand combat, but this spirit, assuming Quatre was right and it was Trowa, seemed stronger than he could be. The young assassin hadn't been hurt when the presence pushed him to the floor, but he had certainly felt the force. He wondered if Trowa had that kind of physical strength.  
  
Although he was dead, Trowa was still very much a part of this equation. Even if Quatre was mistaken, his death was what had brought about these attacks. Though he trusted his friend's word, Heero did find it hard to believe that Trowa would hurt his best friend like that. What would the circus performer really have wanted? He had considered himself too young to write a will, but that probably wouldn't help here anyway. Heero was pretty sure that Trowa would have wanted Quatre to be happy after his death, but these attacks made him wonder.  
  
As the red letters of the store's sign came into view as Heero turned a corner, the boy changed his perspective, thinking back to when Quatre told him about these happenings. It was pure chance, luck-of-the-draw that he was the person the Winner heir told. He had been the one in the relevant place at the relevant time. Had he left it much longer, he would have been willing to tell the next person to walk into the room he was in, be it a friend, one of his sisters, a business associate or a complete stranger. Quatre had been near breaking point, and that's why Heero felt truly obliged to help in every way he could.  
  
Heero's thoughts were broken as he reached his destination. He quickly decided to keep things on a simple level - he knew what to do for now, anyway. He must protect Quatre from these attacks no matter what.  
  
--**--**--  
  
When Heero returned to the apartment, he found that Quatre had fallen asleep. He looked so peaceful that Heero left him as he was and started to unpack the shopping. So peaceful now, who would guess the sorrows and stresses that plagued the young boy? Heero took especial care not to make too much noise. It wasn't difficult for him, as being as quiet as possible was part of his assassin nature. He carefully unwrapped a plastic cup and filled it with water from the tap. This he placed on the table, along with two aspirin, ready for when Quatre woke up. The small fridge made a buzzing sound too loud for the comfort of Heero, so he quickly shut its door as soon as he had placed the milk in it. He counted the money he had left and checked it with the receipt. They'd have to get more money from the bank for tomorrow. Putting the bag in the bin, Heero turned to the kettle and boiled some water for the two pots of instant pasta he'd bought. One day at a time - tomorrow they may be somewhere completely different. One day could be instant pasta; the next could be three course meals at the most creditable restaurant in town. As the kettle came to the boil, Heero was thankful that it didn't whistle. He wanted to let Quatre sleep while he could. Slowly, he stirred the pasta mix around with a plastic spoon. The pieces of pasta appeared to be drowning in the seemingly too large amount of water that had been added. It reminded him of how Quatre was in way over his head with all these happenings. If only there was someone who understood what they were dealing with. He slightly sighed and sat back to wait the five minutes for the tomato sauce to thicken and the pasta to expand. Reaching over, he opened his laptop and switched it on. The pilot contemplated e-mailing their friends but thought better of it - if Quatre didn't want them to know, who was he to go against his friend's wishes? Taking another plastic cup from the packet, he filled it with water for himself. The pasta was ready now. Heero walked over to where Quatre was peacefully sleeping on top of the bed. He placed one hand on the boy's shoulder and gently shook him.  
  
"Quatre," he gently said, "Quatre, dinner's ready." Slowly, the blonde opened his eyes. He sat up and stretched.  
  
"Thanks," he smiled slightly. Heero straightened up.  
  
"You hungry?" He walked up to the table and pulled up a chair. Quatre followed suit.  
  
"Yeah," he took one of the aspirin his friend had left for him. "Thanks." He took the other. Heero passed him a plastic fork for his meal. Gratefully, he began to eat. Heero watched him for a while. "Aren't you hungry, Heero?" Quatre inquired. In reply, the young pilot began to eat.  
  
When he had finished, Heero turned to his friend. "Are you planning on telling Duo and Wufei?" The question had not left his mind since the trip to the shop.  
  
"I've already informed them of Trowa's death..."  
  
"No," Heero stopped him, "I mean about these," he paused, struggling to find an appropriate word, "attacks."  
  
"Oh," Quatre lost the faint smile and turned his face to his feet again, "I'm not sure...I ought to, I guess."  
  
"Quatre, you don't have to do anything you don't feel comfortable with."  
  
"No," the two pairs of blue eyes met, "I really should." Tearless sorrow glistened in Quatre's gaze. "I...I want to."  
  
--**--**--  
  
Heero quickly glanced around the red room. He had no idea where he was, or how he got there. It was blank, apart from red walls on every side - blood red walls. There was no door. The half-light was adequate but appeared to come from absolutely nowhere. Heero grunted.  
  
A figure appeared before the Japanese boy. "Trowa?" The pilot questioned. It looked like Trowa, but it didn't seem to be all there. His feet did not quite reach the floor, though he seemed to be standing. What really made Heero doubt his vision was the expression he wore. True, Trowa was a Gundam pilot, hardened by many battles and war, but Heero knew that expression was beyond him. He had never seen such a hard, steely, aggressive look on anyone's face before, and certainly hadn't expected to receive it from Trowa. Although he was quite taken aback by this, he took care not to let it show.  
  
"You stay away from Quatre," his voice was menacing, "stay away." The figure advanced a stepless pace. "This is our business, keep out of it. Just leave us alone!" With that, Heero saw fire burning in Trowa's eyes.  
  
"But why?"  
  
"This isn't your affair. Keep away from Quatre-"  
  
--**--**--  
  
Heero sat bolt upright, sweating and panting heavily. It took a minute for the familiar apartment bedroom to come into focus.  
  
"Heero, Heero, are you all right?" Quatre was knelt by the side of his bed. He looked very concerned. "You were tossing and turning, and calling. Do you feel all right?"  
  
"Fine. Just a bad dream." If there was one thing he didn't want, it was to further burden Quatre with nursing him as well. To calm the blonde's nerves, he visibly relaxed. "Did I wake you?"  
  
"No, I got cold and noticed you were sweating. Are you sure you're all right?" As much as he hated to admit it, he had been quite shaken up by that dream. But it was the last thing he'd do to confess it to Quatre.  
  
"I'm fine," he reasserted. "Go back to bed, Quatre, it's," he glanced at the clock on the wall, squinting to see it in the darkness, "only a quarter after three." Reluctantly, the blonde stood up.  
  
"Are you sure? Maybe I should check your temperature." The look of worry just couldn't be shifted from his expression.  
  
"No," the pilot firmly stated as he lay back down. "Go back to bed."  
  
"Please," the blue eyes begged, "it would make me feel a whole lot better." Heero sighed. There was no way he was going to dissuade his friend. Besides, if it would put the blonde's mind at ease, it wouldn't hurt. Seeing Heero's permission, Quatre took the digital thermometer from where it rested on the sink. He handed it to his friend. When it beeped, the Arabian took it back. He smiled. "You're normal. Night, Heero." Quietly, he slipped back into bed. Heero waited to make sure his friend was asleep before drifting back into slumber himself.  
  
To be continued... --**--**--  
  
AN: Again, please review. Criticism will be accepted, flames extinguished. More coming as soon as possible!  
  
AshLillymon 


	3. Chapter III

AN: I don't own Gundam Wing. I wish I did, but I don't. Warnings - violence, harrowing, angst, scary scene(s)  
  
In response to reviews/e-mails -  
  
I'm not entirely sure what pairing/s there are yet. You can take it anyway you please.  
  
Sorry this took so long. There was a major plot-hole I needed to sort out.  
  
Lastly, if you think you know what has/is happening, why not e-mail me to tell me what you think. Being honest, I'm not quite sure how the story will end, but I do know what is going on, if you see what I mean.  
  
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The Tainted Promise  
  
Chapter 3  
  
The phone in the kitchen rang. As quick as a flash, a teenage boy ran to it and lifted the receiver, his brown braid trailing behind him slightly. "Hello," he said, "this is Duo."  
  
"Hey, Duo, it's Quatre," on the other end of the line, the blonde sat on his bed, holding the telephone. Heero sat at the table, keeping a close eye on his companion.  
  
"Quatre!" Duo exclaimed in greeting. "How ya been? What's up?" He pulled a chair closer and sat down.  
  
"Oh, I'm not too bad," that was an understatement. The Arabian adjusted his position, pulling one foot under him. "Listen, Duo, something's come up and I really need to talk to you about it."  
  
"Ok," Duo smiled. He had no idea what he was about to be told, "I'm listening." Patiently, he sat through Quatre's tale. He could feel the sorrow in his friend's tone. Not only was he shocked by the account, he was in a sort of disbelief. Just like everybody else, he had no clue as to what was going on. Questions flooded his mind but he knew better than to ask them now. "Whoa," he said as Quatre finished talking. "That's pretty tough! You sure you're all right?"  
  
"Well, I'm not alone," Quatre smiled thankfully, "Heero's with me." He explained.  
  
"Heero?" That was the last person that Duo had expected. He also doubted if Heero could really support Quatre that well.  
  
"Yeah, he's been helping find a solution." Once again, he shuffled around, pulling the other foot underneath him now. "Anyway, thanks for listening. I felt I ought to tell you."  
  
"Wait!" Duo exclaimed, jumping up. "Where are you? I'm gonna come." He stretched the phone cord trying to reach a pen and paper. He poised, ready to write.  
  
"Err, L3, X94-39, I think," Heero nodded, verifying that it was correct. "Listen, Duo, you really don't have to, we're fine, Heero and myself."  
  
"Oh, no, I'm coming," Duo scribbled down the last of that address. There was no way he was going to let Heero beat him at people skills, especially not with Quatre. "Well, buddy-boy, I shall see you soon, depending on how quickly I can get transport. Bye!"  
  
"Bye, Duo," then he said, a little quieter, "thanks." He put the receiver down.  
  
"He's coming?" Heero checked. Quatre nodded. Although the Japanese pilot didn't show it, he would rather Duo would not be assisting, but this was the Arabian's business more than his own. Quatre picked up the receiver again and started to dial. He looked uncomfortable as he waited for a reply. The boy was about to hang up when Heero said, "Keep a hold of the line. He'll be training and won't get to it very quickly."  
  
A woman of about twenty pulled back a sliding door to dash to the ringing phone. "Sally Po here, can I help?" Her red lips and red hair, twisted in her own unique style, gave her a fiery appearance.  
  
"Miss Sally, this is Quatre," he got comfortable on the bed again. "Is Wufei there?"  
  
"He's training." Big surprise. She looked behind her. The Preventer could see him from the room she was in. "You're in luck, Quatre. Lady Une was going to send him on a mission this afternoon, so you just caught him." She called to the black haired teenage boy meditating in the inner garden of the dojo. "Wufei, there's a phone call for you."  
  
"Woman," Wufei sternly addressed her, "tell them I'm busy." No-one disturbs his meditation sessions. They were a vital part of training for him.  
  
"But it's Quatre," she tried to reason, intuition telling her of the importance of this call.  
  
"Then tell him to call back later," the boy was quite annoyed at being interrupted.  
  
"Please, Miss Sally, I must speak with him," Quatre could faintly hear their conversation.  
  
"It's very important, Wufei," the Preventer insisted. Reluctantly, the Oriental teenager got up and walked calmly to the room. He slightly snatched the telephone from the woman.  
  
"Quatre, I don't mean to sound rude, but could you make this quick, I need to train."  
  
"Wufei, what I'm going to talk to you about is very hard to believe," the Arabian hoped his friend wouldn't feel that way after he had heard the story. "But you have to believe me, it's all true." With that, he proceeded to narrate the past month's events in the same manner he had for Duo. "And that's the truth." The Oriental's attitude changed.  
  
"I...I," possibly for the first time in his life, Wufei Chang was lost for words. He just didn't know anything to say to his friend. "Winner, I have to admit, I don't understand." He sighed.  
  
"I know," Quatre wiped away the welling tears from having to half relive the past month's events again. "I don't understand it myself, but I felt I really ought to tell you. I've already told Heero and Duo, and I thought you should know, too."  
  
"Well," the Chinese pilot kept his dignified stance. "I hope you don't need me to come over straight away. I'm going on a Preventers' mission this afternoon and won't be back until Thursday evening. Where are you anyway?"  
  
"L3, colony X94-39," Quatre stated. A grin spread across his face, "Does this mean you'll join us?"  
  
"I'm not promising anything," Wufei lowered his tone, "the Preventers' work has to come first, but I'll see if I can meet you there."  
  
"Thanks, Wufei," the blonde relaxed as he put the receiver down. It wasn't a promise, but it was better than refusal. He hadn't called them to ask them for help, that was a bonus. The gang would be all assembled. Except... Trowa would be missing.  
  
"Is he coming too?" Heero inquired, but his friend was far too immersed in his own thoughts to hear. The grave thoughts plagued the Winner heir's mind. Never would the team be complete again. To tell the truth, Quatre had fully expected Heero, if anyone, to die young. For some reason, the Arabian felt the need to cry again. Silently, Heero handed him a tissue he took from the roll of toilet paper. "Is he coming?" Heero repeated himself, keeping his usual monotone.  
  
"Yeah," Quatre sobbed, "we're all going to be here... except Trowa."  
  
--**--**--  
  
Duo Maxwell settled down in the seat he had been assigned. He brought his brown braid out from under him. Inter-colony transport was always long-haul and boring. It wasn't relatively far from the L2 to L3 areas, only about twelve hours on the particularly fast shuttle he had managed to snag a last minute ticket on. He had pulled a few strings, but this was an emergency. A little less of an emergency than he had made out, but he felt it important to get to his friend as quickly as possible. To him, this was more of an emergency than some of the things they'd seen in the war. Still, it had got him the ticket, and that's what mattered. Quatre needed help now. It was disappointing that even on this ship, he wouldn't get to them much before eleven that evening.  
  
The time difference didn't please Duo much, either. He may arrive at eleven technically, but to his body it would be two in the morning. He had considered flying himself there, but with the time differences and without a copilot it would be difficult. The American pilot didn't want to fall asleep at the controls! At least this way, he could sleep during the journey. Before the shuttle took off, he mentally checked that all was prepared. In the haste to get to his friends, he merely scribbled Hilde a note, praying that she'd understand, packed a few clothes and essentials into a large sports bag and left for the travel agency. The teenage boy had been lucky to catch this flight, just two hours after the call. It had been quite a dash, but it was worth it. If not for anything else, it was worth it to hear the relief in Quatre's voice when he called to tell them when he was coming. He relaxed.  
  
All the questions he had thought of earlier flooded back in his mind. The whole thing made his head spin. Why, why, why? Nothing was making any sense. In the past, Trowa would be protecting Quatre from attacks, not the one to cause them. Duo sighed. Now, he felt obliged to take over from the Latin pilot. There was no way Heero was able to do the job, he wasn't the right type of person. Besides, after Trowa, Duo was Quatre's best friend. It was his duty to protect him. The young boy struggled to remember every last bit of the events. It was hard when he had witnessed none of them first-hand. Perhaps he'd understand better when he'd seen it for himself. Maybe, or, then again, perhaps not. The braided boy shifted around, getting comfortable again. Could even the Arabian himself comprehend the happenings? It was possible, the blonde possessed quite a bit more intellect than he did. Heero often referred to the American as 'baka' - a Japanese term for 'idiot'. Once he got there, he could leave all the thinking to Quatre, just like any straight forward battle. But this wasn't a straight forward battle. It was far more complex and mysterious. Well, Duo Maxwell never had entered a mission being sure he would complete it. At least this time, he was pretty sure he would come out of it with his life. Shinigami - the God of Death. The boy pondered over his nickname. It was a silly nickname really. How could a mere human boy call himself 'the God of Death'? He had no real power over life and death, just a reputation for killing. If he really was Shinigami, he'd bring Trowa back, for Quatre's sake. But no, it wasn't possible. Trowa was gone. Had he not had his pride, the brown-haired boy would have let himself cry. Why had life always been so cruel? Nothing was ever easy, and when something seemed to be going so right, something happened to shatter everything.  
  
"Excuse me, sir?" A stewardess leaned over. "Would you like something to drink, sir?" She smiled. Not her fault, she didn't know.  
  
"Yeah," the young boy put on a happy face, he had to keep cheerful, "I'll go for a nice cold root beer, thanks."  
  
"Certainly, sir," the young woman flicked her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ear as she reached for a can and poured it in front of Duo. She moved the drinks trolley on. For a while, the boy sat staring into the dark soda. The stewardess had given him four ice cubes. They each struggled to reach the surface of the all-encompassing liquid. Struggling, like each one of the Gundam pilots struggled to stay afloat in the dark sea that was their lives. The American pilot looked more closely. Four ice cubes, each battling to reach the surface, one smaller than the others was finding itself pushed out because there was only room for three. Four, one missing, for Trowa. And a smaller one, having trouble staying above water, Quatre. Then, the pilot was overcome - he was far too thirsty to just sit staring at a cool soda for its philosophical value.  
  
--**--**--  
  
Heero walked beside Quatre, keeping a close eye on him as they went grocery shopping. Duo wouldn't arrive until eleven that night, so they didn't have to worry about cooking an evening meal for him. The blonde Arabian had insisted that he came along. As much as he understood that the perfect soldier wanted to protect him, he wasn't keen on staying cooped up in the apartment like some precious treasure, wrapped up in cotton wool. So he pleaded that he really should get out and keep himself occupied. A smart move - this was exactly Heero's argument in the first place of things. The Arabian made doubly sure he'd be taken by keeping a tight grip on his credit card - the only source of money for the two teenage boys, save around three dollars seventy six in small change. It was necessary for them to stock up since very soon it wouldn't just be the two of them, and they had nothing better to do.  
  
"Just what are we buying, anyway?" The Japanese didn't enjoy shopping as much as Quatre did. Normally, he'd just make a list and get what he needed. On this occasion, he saw no need to purchase anything, they had what they needed for the minute, they could always eat out for lunch and dinner, it was just the two of them. He looked around the different shops at the mall.  
  
"Well," the blonde started, "we're rather low on toothpaste, and I thought I'd get some home comforts for Wufei and Duo." The ploy of keeping his mind off things was working. He had nearly completely forgotten about the situation. Heero grunted slightly under his breath, inaudible to his friend. He really didn't feel this was necessary, but it was Quatre's money, not his, and he could spend it how he liked. When you were that rich, money wasn't an object to contend with. The two passed a pizzeria. Quatre stopped. "What's say we have lunch a little early, and shop after?" His friend merely nodded in agreement.  
  
Before long, the four-cheese pizza they had ordered to share was served in front of the two boys. The blonde smiled thankfully at the waitress, but she was far too busy to notice, so he dropped it. Heero picked up the slice nearest to him. The mozzarella cheese stretched from the slice back to the rest of the pizza in thick strings. Quatre watched as his friend pulled harder in order to separate the stubborn piece from the rest of the dish. He sighed and picked up a piece himself to further observe the antics of the cheese. At this time, the Japanese pilot resorted to using a knife to cut the reaching threads of mozzarella prohibiting him from removing the slice. The Arabian watched the cheese closely. It clung to each other, and as hard as he pulled, it wouldn't let go.  
  
"Isn't this cheese remarkable?" He commented to Heero, who was tussling with the cheese from the bite he had just taken. "As much as we try to tear it apart, it desperately sticks together." Heero looked up warily at his companion. He had a feeling about where this was headed. The Arabian slowed his speech. "Just like every living thing clings to life." Tears started to sparkle in his blue eyes.  
  
Heero rose from his chair and firmly slapped his ally. "Quatre," he sat back down, reprimanding the Arabian in his characteristic monotone. "Drop it, forget it. It'll drive you crazy if you don't." Quatre sat, stunned for a minute, realizing that what Heero was saying was true. Silently, he ate, avoiding Heero's protective, piecing stare.  
  
--**--**--  
  
"Time off Preventer's work?" Wufei stood to attention in front of his superior. She was not happy with his request, she showed this in her tone. It was gentle by nature, but now had notes of both shock and objection. She brushed her dirty blonde hair off her shoulder. Her most dedicated Preventer was asking to be temporarily relieved of duties.  
  
"I'm sorry to ask," the Chinese teenager kept his posture rigidly, "but something's come up." She eyed her colleague. It was not like him to ask for time off.  
  
"I can't just let you go," the female colonel sat behind her desk, exercising her authority over the boy. Although there was a chair on the other side, he was not permitted to sit. "You have a mission this afternoon. It is beyond my power to excuse you from that."  
  
"I understand," Wufei resisted looking out of the large window behind the woman's desk, focusing on her. "Would it be possible to suspend me from any further missions indefinitely?"  
  
"Indefinitely!" She sprang from her chair in surprise, knocking it backwards. It made a large thump on the floor, which caught the attention of the two guards who had been guarding the room from outside. They burst in ready for action, but were quickly dismissed. "It's nothing." The two saluted their colonel and left, closing the doors behind them. She turned once again to Wufei. "I don't understand."  
  
"Lady Une, something has come up that I need to deal with," still keeping a dignified soldier's stance he explained as much as he knew, on the basic level.  
  
"Outside of Preventer's work?" The lady questioned. Wufei nodded.  
  
"I don't know how long it will take me," the boy was as still as a statue, "or when I will return to Earth." His colonel eyed him suspiciously. Something of all the old OZ talk of Gundam pilot rebels had stuck. A secret within the Preventer department that the soldiers kept from the superiors was not good. "It's not secret," she relaxed, "it's just not my business to say." Wufei cleverly concealed his lack of understanding in the strange happenings.  
  
"Well, Wufei," she addressed him by his first name, rather than 'Chang' as she was generally encouraged to do for Preventer business, and smiled apologetically, "I shall see what I can do."  
  
"Thank you, Lady Une," the Chinese Preventer saluted his superior, then bowed to her. "If it's a problem for them, let them think I'm sick." He slightly joked and left the room. The woman picked up her fallen chair and sat on it. Immediately, she began to make a phone call in order to pull strings for her best Preventer.  
  
--**--**--  
  
Quatre sat at the table, looking down at his feet. A fresh scratch graced his right cheek. The spectre had drawn blood when he ran the blonde's nail across his face. He fiddled with his fingers while he waited for Heero to return. The two boys had spent most of that day in silence. The Arabian wasn't in the mood for talk, and the assassin didn't particularly dislike the quiet. On the other hand, his comrade did feel uneasy at this, he felt heavy-hearted about the incident at the pizzeria. The boy sighed. Heero was right - it would drive him insane, but just recently it was all he could think about. Every little thing reminded him of it. He was trapped, like a bird in a cage. His fingers ran over the scratch. It wasn't bleeding and didn't hurt. It certainly wouldn't scar but it wasn't the best thing to show Duo that evening.  
  
Heero knocked on the door before entering, even though he had every right not to. The sudden noise startled Quatre at first, but regaining his composure, the blonde called, "It's ok, Heero, I'm awake." The Japanese boy came into the room. He grunted when he saw that the other pilot had not moved since he left, half an hour ago. The novel the Arabian had been reading was left on the table, untouched. His eyes reinstated what he had said that morning, but it was not received. The brown-haired boy placed the plastic bag on the table in front of his comrade.  
  
"I got dinner," he firmly stated, sitting opposite the blonde.  
  
"Thanks," Quatre spoke quietly and distractedly. He avoided looking at the Japanese teenager even the slightest. Although he had profusely apologized for that morning's incident, he still felt guilty. Silently, Heero unpacked the plastic bag, bringing out two packets of fries and two wrapped burgers. He gently nudged the other boy's arm to get his attention. Quickly, Quatre pulled away and looked up. Slight fear showed in his eyes. He felt like a little boy, in trouble with his parents. A deep rift had placed itself between the two boys since that morning. Heero remained emotionless, trying to give a feeling of regularity.  
  
"Eat," the monotone voice commanded. He unwrapped his burger and began to put it in his mouth instructively. Absent-mindedly, the Arabian began on his fries, one by one. He looked out of the window so as not to glance at the Japanese pilot. Silence as they ate made the rift wider. "I meant what I said this morning." Reluctantly, Quatre turned to him. "If you keep thinking about it, it'll drive you crazy."  
  
"I know," the feet shuffled. His voice was unusually quiet. "I want to forget...but I can't." The last fry found its way to the pilot's mouth, though he was paying it close to no attention. He blinked away tears, not wanting his companion to see them. "I just can't."  
  
"Quatre," blue eyes met blue eyes, "you're going to have to."  
  
"You don't understand, Heero!" Unable to control himself, Quatre stood defiantly up from the table. The tears he had tried to hide flowed quickly down his cheeks, wetting the day's cut. "I can't forget, I just can't!" He left the room quickly. The other boy sat shocked at the sudden outburst.  
  
"Quatre..." Heero reprimanded slowly. Patiently, he waited. The blonde would return. And if he didn't, Heero knew where he had gone.  
  
--**--**--  
  
Duo Maxwell turned around, examining his surroundings. No longer was he onboard an inter-colony shuttle, someone had placed him in a room - a red room. The braided boy had no idea how he got there, just that he was there. The walls and ceiling were blood red and the eerie dim light made him feel most at unease. He looked around for a door, but there didn't appear to be one. The room's walls glowed as a voice rang out.  
  
"Keep away, Duo," it sent shivers down the young boy's spine. The menacing tone seemed unreal, but despite this, the young pilot recognized that voice.  
  
"Trowa?" He questioned, unable to believe his ears. Sure, it was the Latin boy's voice, but certainly not his usual tone. Realizing his chance, the young boy questioned it. "What you doing?"  
  
"Stay away from Quatre," the walls glowed again as the melancholy demand was issued.  
  
"Whoa," Duo breathed, still disbelieving his ears. Although his confidence was shaken, he kept his nerve. Again, he asked, "what are you doing to Quatre?"  
  
"Keep away!" In a red flash, the spectre of Trowa appeared in front of the American boy, who cried out in surprise. Fire burnt in the emerald eyes and his feet glided across the floor. The fire stared into the boy. "This isn't your business!" It advanced, stepless, invading his personal space.  
  
Duo panicked. He wasn't claustrophobic, but the spirit was too close for his comfort. He ran to the nearest wall and pushed hard, hoping it would open up an exit for him. Slowly, the spectre closed in. The American's breathing quickened in terror. In a desperate attempt, he ran to another end of the room, avoiding the apparition, but he tripped and fell flat on his face. The boy tried to get up, but found the gravity was to great. Quickly, he rolled over. The spectre was a short distance away, ever gliding closer. He brought up his arm to protect himself.  
  
--**--**--  
  
AN: Please review (again). Criticism will be accepted, flames extinguished. Hopefully this chapter has a fast enough pace? More coming as soon as possible! The next chapter could take longer to post, I'm not sure how much I'll write.  
  
AshLillymon 


	4. Chapter IV

AN: I don't own Gundam Wing. I wish I did, but I don't. Warnings - violence, harrowing, angst, scary scene(s)  
  
I must say a big, big apology, because it has taken me absolute ages to get this sorted. I hope that you all enjoy the ending, which will be released next week!  
  
--**--**--  
  
The Tainted Promise  
  
Chapter 4  
  
"Sir, sir," Duo woke up to the smiling face of the stewardess, which calmed him instantly. "What would you like to eat? Chicken or beef?"  
  
The boy yawned. "Err, chicken, thanks." He had been considerably shaken by the nightmare, but he wasn't about to let it show. He beamed at the blonde as she placed his meal in front of him. She flicked her hair again as she prepared to move on.  
  
"Root beer, right, sir?" As he nodded, she opened the can with a slight hiss. Her dutiful expression was soothing to the pilot, but it would take a while for him to completely relax. His hand reached across his forehead. He had slightly broken out into a cold sweat. Removing his hand, he let his bangs flop back onto his face. His hand shook slightly as he took up the plastic fork, but he willed it to stop and it obeyed. As he ate, the boy pondered over the dream. Why had Trowa warned him to stay away? He was only trying to protect Quatre, so what was the big deal? Things were getting hopelessly complicated, and it made Duo's head spin thinking about them. Was there a solution to this problem? Perhaps it was one of those unanswerable questions, like the meaning of life. No, there had to be an answer, and someone had to find it, and quickly, before something more drastic happened.  
  
--**--**--  
  
Quatre sat on the cold stone sphere, tears streaking down his face. He watched the sun set. "Oh, Trowa," he sighed. As he hung down his head, the tears fell to the floor, wetting it in little polka dot patches. It was growing dark, but the blonde boy just sat, letting the world pass him by. He didn't know what to think anymore. One month ago, he was as happy as could be, he had his best friend with him, and they were on holiday together. The wars were over, and finally the five pilots could live normal lives - or so they thought. Now, Trowa had been killed, and Quatre had been plunged into a deep sea of melancholy. Everything had been changed. His world had been turned upside-down. Nothing was the same, and the Arabian wondered if he could cope anymore. He had just thrown away all chance of Heero helping when he took out his frustrations on the Japanese pilot. He probably hated him now. All Heero was trying to do was help. Unfortunately, he didn't understand. He was Doctor J's perfect soldier - trained to be so emotionless, so unfeeling. He didn't have a clue what his friend was going through. How could he ever understand? Maybe it was better to be that way. If he was that way, too, maybe he wouldn't feel such pain at losing Trowa. He remembered his friends' reactions when he informed them that Trowa was gone. Wufei was shocked, Duo went numb and Heero...seemed emotionless as always. He was trained from childhood not to get upset, to let nothing shake him. In a way, that was the most tragic thing. Now, in an instant, Quatre had lost all hope of seeking comfort in him. It was his own fault, and he'd give anything to apologize, but he guessed the perfect soldier wouldn't want anymore to do with him. Not now. He stared at the growing puddle on the ground. If it was possible to cry one's self to death, he was certain he was halfway there. But it didn't matter to him anymore. Trowa was right, he was far too weak to survive in this world alone; and Heero was right, too, dwelling on it would drive him crazy. Maybe he was halfway there, also. His life wasn't important to him anymore. All he felt was the pain.  
  
A sudden noise disrupted his thoughts. He looked up and his teary eyes were temporarily blinded by a set of car headlights. The boy remained sat there as the driver of the car got out and started to walk towards him. He blinked in disbelief. It was Heero. He had come back. He cared enough to come back.  
  
"Heero?" The blonde asked, his voice shaky from crying and cold.  
  
"You'll be cold," he tossed the while bundle he had been carrying to the boy. It was Quatre's white jacket. "Put this on." Obediently, he did as he was instructed. He didn't want to offend his friend any more than he already had.  
  
"Heero," his voice was quiet and weak, "I'm so sorry." The Japanese pilot said nothing, but knelt down next to his companion and wiped away the tears with his fingers. Quatre was unsure whether his apology had been accepted or not. He was grateful that his friend had come back for him. Abruptly, the brown haired boy stood up.  
  
"Come on," the boy instructed, "it's time to get Duo. Quit crying if you don't want him to notice." Silently, he got up from the sphere. It was a different kind of silence now. An understanding silence, that told each boy that nothing more needed to be said. Entirely different from the silence that had put a rift between them all day. He felt weak and stumbled slightly as he took a step. Without saying a word, his friend placed Quatre's arm around his shoulders and supported him. The Arabian forced a smile in order to show his gratitude, but he felt awful inside. The pain had mingled with cold and confusion to produce an all consuming weakness within him. His head hurt and he didn't feel that much like facing his friends, pretending he was all right. Heero put him in the passenger seat and fastened the seat-belt for him. After getting in himself, he pointed to a package on the dashboard. "Your burger's there. If you don't want it, Duo won't say no. Are you gonna be all right?" Quatre mouthed a 'yes' and proceeded to consume the burger slowly. He had meant to speak it but the word just didn't come out. Convinced by his friend's sincerity, Heero drove on to the airport.  
  
"Are you gonna be all right?" Heero repeated the question as he parked the car. His comrade sighed.  
  
"Heero, I'm sorry," he confessed, looking down, "I shouldn't have shouted like that. Can you forgive me?" His voice was still small and weak. He still felt bad inside.  
  
"You were right," Heero didn't even look at him, "I don't understand. But I'm going to stay with you. I'm gonna make sure you don't do anything stupid." Weakly, the blonde smiled out of gratitude. Glimpsing into the other pilot's eyes he saw no emotion, but thankfully, a recognition.  
  
--**--**--  
  
The arrivals room was very crowded, and Heero had to keep a firm hold of the sleeve of Quatre's jacket so as not to loose him in the confusion. It was hard enough to stay together, let alone look for their friend. However, it was Duo who found them.  
  
"Hey," he called, waving frantically until his comrades noticed him. He dumped the heavy bag on the floor beside him.  
  
"Duo!" Quatre rushed to embrace his friend in greeting, slipping out of the other pilot's grasp. "I'm so glad you could make it. Thank you."  
  
"Well, here I am," pulling back slightly, he took a minute to look into the deep blue eyes. He didn't need to be told how much the blonde needed his help. It was obvious - he could see it. His eyes and that long scratch gave everything away. The smile on Quatre's face, as genuine as it was, hid many grievances. The American looked in the direction of the Japanese pilot. "Hey, Heero." He wasn't expecting a greeting from him, and the 'hn' under the soldier's breath was all he was about to receive. The braided boy stretched and yawned, cunningly slipping out of the Winner heir's embrace. "Well, shall we get out of this place?" Heero led the way back to their car, carrying Duo's blue sports bag. The other two chatted apparently happily, catching up on news and gossip. But it was a veneer. Duo masked his concern and Quatre masked his sorrow. Heero knew this. Duo saw right through it. Thankfully, in his dazed state, it was something that Quatre missed.  
  
--**--**--  
  
Heero and Duo sat awake, cradling cups of coffee. Quatre had fallen asleep twice on the journey back to the apartment, and so upon arrival, went straight to bed. He slept peacefully, exhausted by the day's events. It was tough, caught in the middle of a conflict, confused, afraid and sorrowed. Duo drew his eyes away from the sleeping angel to his coffee cup.  
  
"How long have you been living with Quatre?" He asked, sipping the hot, black liquid.  
  
"A week," bluntly, the assassin replied. An air of tension hung around the room. It was obvious to both the boys that neither was entirely happy in each other's presence.  
  
"It hurts to see him like this, doesn't it?" Slackening his smile, he flicked his head back towards where the Arabian youth was sleeping. The brown haired braided boy sighed slightly as he waited for a reply, but none came. "It makes you wonder how much he's hurting, inside. He's lucky he can still sleep so well."  
  
"Yeah," Heero's reply seemed distracted. He didn't seem at all talkative, not that he was ever that way. Placing his mug onto the table, the American boy walked slowly over to where his friend slept. He brushed his bangs away from his face, although they immediately fell back into place. Quatre was a heavy sleeper and barely moved at his friend's touch. Taking the opportunity, the American took a good look at the scratch, fingering it gently.  
  
"You know how he got this, don't you?" He looked back up at his comrade.  
  
"Yeah," the reply was short and slightly curt. It looked like the information would have to be drawn out long and slowly.  
  
"Don't you say anything but 'yeah'?" Duo chuckled to himself as he tried to make a joke of the situation. Upon getting no response, he asked, "Well?"  
  
"One of the attacks," the calm boy ran his thumbnail across his cheek, as if recreating the incident. The other pilot looked at his friend in shock.  
  
"What?" He stood up quickly, wide-eyed, "and didn't you do anything to stop it?"  
  
"Trowa warned me not to," his voice remained as flat as ever. Pure fact and nothing else.  
  
"How?" The braided boy was angry at his friend. Did he not care?  
  
"He wrote us a note," he tipped his head back as he drained the last of the coffee, "it's still on the writing desk if you want to read it. And then, I had a dream."  
  
"And you're taking notice of that?!?" Duo was furious. "You coward! It means nothing. Nothing!" Heero just sat there. "So you had a dream? So what? I had one, too! I...I can't believe you!" He paused, mid breath, picking up Trowa's scribbled note and ripping it down the middle unevenly. "You coward! It means nothing!" The two halves drifted down to the floor.  
  
"Quiet," was his only reply, "you'll wake Quatre." Duo sat down in frustration and finished his beverage.  
  
"You coward," he stared deeply into the other pilot's eyes, searching for something that wasn't there, "I really thought you were stronger than that, Heero." However weak it may seem, Heero was strong. He was just caught in the middle. Coming from a different cultural background to Duo, he strongly believed in the spirit world. Although Quatre was his close ally, it didn't bode well to aggravate deranged spirits. The American, on the other hand, his belief's caused him to deny such conflictions between the spirit world and this. That was, of course, if and when he could be defeated in argument that there actually was a spirit world. He sighed, and returned to the blonde's sleeping form, fiddling gently with the platinum strands. "Did you tell him?"  
  
"No, and I don't intend to, either." Heero got up from the table slowly. "He has enough to worry about without adding this. Goodnight." Not saying another word, he began to go to bed. It had been a long day, and tomorrow could well turn out to be just as long. Pushing the blonde bangs back to watch them fall one last time, Duo decided that it was time for bed himself.  
  
"Night, Quatre," he whispered softly. "Hang in there, buddy."  
  
--**--**--  
  
The next day the rain fell out of the sky that next day, drenching the three boys in the short space of time it took to dash from the car to the building in which Madame DePlume worked. Quatre and Heero's hairstyles were more or less plastered to their faces, and it was nearly possible to wring Duo's braid like a freshly washed T-shirt. Just lately the weather had become unpredictable on that colony, even though it was completely manually controlled. Their jackets, being designed for summer-wear, offered little protection from the torrent above, and so by the time they saw the psychic, the three were soaked to the skin. All were very grateful when she offered them hot chocolate and towels.  
  
"Thanks," Quatre smiled as he rubbed his platinum gold hair dry.  
  
"No problem," reassuringly, she smiled back. "Summer isn't the time of year one expects a downpour, is it?"  
  
"No," he half laughed. His two friends sat quietly, drying off next to the medium's fireplace, both satisfied to let the Arabian deal with his own business.  
  
"How have things been, Master Winner?" Tentatively, she asked the question. She didn't exactly know if she wanted to hear the answer. In truth, she had wondered if taking on this case was such a good idea, but the woman had already committed herself, upon seeing the distress in the young heir's eyes. A client was a client, and she wasn't about to refuse, especially now times had been none too great. For some reason, clients hadn't been coming as frequently as they used to. Perhaps the times had changed, but it meant that although she was a medium by trade, she had been relying on what she considered as 'petty' psychic dealings - one-off tarot and palm readings. Neither required much skill, but it was the only way to keep up the income. And so, when Quatre Winner had approached her with this case, she jumped at the chance to do some true medium's work. Madame DePlume had not thought out the implications - she was only to find them later.  
  
"Oh, not too bad," the boy squeezed the blue towel in his hands, uncomfortable at answering such a question. "Have you found anything?"  
  
She drew her cup of tea closer, relieved. "I wasn't entirely sure what to research, but I did contact the spirit world. I was rather surprised at what I found."  
  
"What was that?" He cradled the mug of hot chocolate in his hands, warming them up. Who'd have thought it'd be summer and so cold?  
  
"The spirit of Trowa Barton is at peace," the woman wore a rather puzzled expression, which quickly spread itself to Quatre, and to some extent, Heero and Duo. Then, it dawned on the small blonde.  
  
"Of course!" He exclaimed. "I'm ever so sorry, Miss DePlume, I forgot. The Trowa Barton we know is not the real Trowa Barton. It's a name that he took when someone died. I'm sorry." Quatre tensed, expecting reprimand, but Madame DePlume didn't seem to mind.  
  
"Oh, don't worry about it," she soothed. "It's not a problem." There was a knock at the door. She rose, offering her hand. "Maybe I could meet you again tomorrow?"  
  
"Sure," the Arabian took her hand and shook it thankfully, his friends standing, ready to leave. "Goodbye."  
  
--**--**--  
  
The three of them were equally soaked while getting back to the apartment. Driving there had been the small talk again. Heero was quiet by nature, but what made Quatre uneasy was that Duo was being unusually untalkative. It made the Arabian wonder what was up with him. Had he said anything to offend his friend? Had he done something wrong? He paused from pulling the small red comb through his short blonde hair to watch his American friend. After flopping down on one of the beds almost immediately when they got in, still in his wet clothes (unlike Quatre, who had sensibly changed into a fresh pair of pants and polo-neck), he was now amusing himself by fiddling with the loose part at the end of his braid. He'd twist it and watch it unwind itself; split it flawlessly into three in order to braid it; wound it around his finger again and again, in different patterns. For what seemed much longer than a moment, the Arabian sat, transfixed, hypnotized by his friend's antics as a silent tear even he was unaware of slowly coursed its way down his cheek. The Arabian suddenly realized that his pal had come to a complete halt.  
  
"Quat?" Tipping his head up, he noticed the tear, "you ok, buddy?"  
  
"Huh?" Duo's voice brought the boy back to reality. He began to feel the wet path of the tear, wiping it quickly away with the back of his free hand, "oh, yeah, I'm fine Duo." He paused. "Are you?"  
  
"What? I'm great, Quat, why shouldn't I be?" He pulled himself into a sitting position.  
  
"Just wondering," the sparkling blue eyes darted away from a beaming smile.  
  
"Say," the smile turned slightly mischievous, "are you gonna sit there with that comb half-way down your hair all day, or can I use it sometime before next year?" The young Arabian blushed slightly as he realized how silly he must look.  
  
"Sorry. Here." He handed over the comb. "I'm finished with it." He picked up his novel and opened it, flicking towards the page he had remembered he read last time. Meanwhile, Duo was undoing his braid. Having been wetted, it waved all the way down his back, part spilling onto his wet shoulder. Quatre stifled a small giggle at how funny it looked. He had never imagined what Duo would look like with his hair loose. The American went to great lengths to hide it from his fellow pilots, and it made his friend wonder why he chose to let it down in front of him now. Perhaps he didn't think the Arabian was watching, perhaps it was best to keep his head down and his nose in the book. However, it wasn't like the braided pilot to take chances like this. With his life, yes, but not with his pride. The young heir watched out of the corner of his eye. Before long, the long hair was re-tyed up into a ponytail.  
  
"When do we get something to eat around here?" Duo sat down by the table, tipping over to read the title of Quatre's book. He caught a 'The' but for the rest, it was angled too steeply towards the table. The blonde looked up.  
  
"Whenever Heero comes back with something," he returned to reading, and turned a page. "He's gone early today." There was an anxious pause between the two. "Duo, are you sure you're ok?"  
  
"Why?" Quatre could read him like a book, though he couldn't work out how. Sometimes there was just no use in hiding it. He would always find out in the end.  
  
"It's just," the boy closed his book resolutely, "you've been quiet since this morning." Duo sighed.  
  
"To tell the truth," the expression on his face weakened, "I don't know about that psychic. I don't really believe in spirits and the like."  
  
"Duo," Quatre looked right into his eyes with a part sorrowful expression, "neither did I. Until now."  
  
--**--**--  
  
Heero mentally kicked himself. How could he be so inconsiderate, so escaping? He, who had risked his life countless times; he, who grew up never knowing fear. Now, the same 'he' was virtually running away. Perhaps before, he didn't have to fear. There was always some higher power to fear for him. Perfect soldiers don't fear. He was created that way, a perfect soldier. One to fight and not ask questions, to kill and not ask questions. Now, it seemed he had lost that. Wherever it had fled to, it had hidden itself well. The boy doubted it was still inside him. Now, he had done this. He had run away like a stupid coward. Duo was right, for once. He was using escapism to run away from his problems. Or rather, someone else's problems. Pure cowardice!  
  
He looked at his watch and prayed that when he got back it'd be forgotten. There was no time not to make the mistake now. Even if he ran, he wouldn't arrive in time. Now, he had to carry on with the task in hand, it was Duo's turn to deal with the demons. If he could trust that there were any. The boy smiled as he thought of Duo desperately trying to cope. He chuckled. If only the messy-haired boy had been there to watch - and laugh.  
  
--**--**--  
  
The blonde cried out in surprise as a blow from the back of his head pushed him onto his hands and knees, panting.  
  
"Huh?" His American friend stood up, taken aback. He glanced at the clock, "oh, no!"  
  
Duo stood, completely unable to move, as his friend coiled in his fingers as if they had been trodden on. Duo shook his head to break his daze.  
  
"Quatre, buddy?" Duo bent down, but his movements were far too slow to keep up. Plus, unlike other members of the once-team, he wasn't able to think efficiently quickly. His new strategy was to keep his Arabian friend off the floor, where he was most vulnerable.  
  
"Not a good plan, Duo," Quatre frowned as his friend pulled him to standing and held him up.  
  
"Why not, Quat?" He hardly had time to finish, before their legs were swept from under them. Duo's face hit the side of a bed, while Quatre fell flat.  
  
"That's why not," the long-haired boy was holding the side of his face, not bothering to get up. "Are you ok, Duo?"  
  
"I'm all right, I think," as suddenly as the blink of an eye, he doubled up in pain.  
  
"Duo!" The blonde let his whole body relax for a minute. He didn't feel anything. "Duo! Trowa's attacking you, isn't he?"  
  
"You...could say that, buddy boy," although the small Arabian was concerned, a thought of amusement crossed his mind. His friend was being beaten up by an angry spirit that was after himself, and still, his friend was smiling. Well, there was Duo for you. His thoughts were quickly broken.  
  
"He's not going to stop, is he?" Tears formed. The remaining ghost was going to keep beating his poor friend until... "No!" The drops rushed down, as if a dam had burst to release them. "Please, please stop. You can't!" His stomach crunched inwards as it was hit. Then, nothing. No violence. It had all stopped. Trowa had gone.  
"You've, um," the Arabian pilot stumbled to say what he had to say as he stood up again. "You've got a black eye, Duo." His friend rushed to the mirror.  
  
"So I have," everything was with slight amusement. It was difficult to imagine what he was thinking. The boy sat down, his friend joining him.  
  
"Duo," Quatre fiddled with his fingers as he asked a question he wasn't quiet sure he wanted to ask, "what do you think now?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"About...you know?" More fiddling.  
  
"I'm not sure...perhaps...maybe. Yeah,"  
  
--**--**--  
  
Heero came in about half an hour later. He placed the paper wrapped packages on the table, and nearly laughed (if he wasn't quite so well trained) when he saw Duo's eye.  
  
"You have a black eye," he commented. In anyone else, it would have been considered slightly sarcastic, but the two boys were used to their friend's realism.  
  
"You know, Heero, I could have worked that out for myself," however, Duo comically took it as if it was an insult. Quatre merely giggled at the two's antics. It was pure fun, and all of the three of them knew it. Including the Japanese boy, who didn't smile, because his emotional lack had become a habit over the years. It all quieted down when the braided boy unwrapped one of the packages and began to push thick chips into his mouth in quick succession.  
  
"Is that a bruise on your wrist?" The blonde nodded his reply to the messy haired friend as he quickly drew a package towards him. In truth, he hadn't noticed, but he wasn't going to admit that to anyone but himself. After all, there was no point in causing anymore anxiety than had already befell them. Just like normal, two of them ate in silence. However, the American young man insisted that he kept talking. Silence was something creepy, not golden, to him.  
  
"You know," he was saying, as he thrust in the last piece of battered fish, "in the war, I think we should've been a little more publicized, know what I mean? I mean, then, our own homelands, the colonies, wouldn't have turned to OZ, but supported us." The papers were stuffed in the somewhat already overfilled bin. Then, for once, Heero replied to him in a level manner.  
  
"No," he civilly argued, "I don't think so. When I went out with Trowa for OZ, I learned a lot about them. They're an extremely crafty military organization, they would have turned the people against us whatever we'd done to try to stop it."  
  
"True, I mean, unlike the Alliance, they mostly rely on intellect and not firepower." He was signaled to fall silent as the Japanese pilot realized that their comrade had gone completely quiet and still. A fair quarter of the Arabian's meal had made it into his system before the abrupt halt. "Quat," his joyful voice fell soft, "it's ok, come on. He's gone, yeah, but there isn't anything we can do. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to sit around and mope like this."  
  
"It's not that," the monotonous voice interrupted him as he sat on the floor next to their blonde friend's chair.  
  
"I nearly killed him, then, Duo," as the heir lifted his head the other two pilots could clearly see his tears. "I had to built that stupid Wing Zero, and I nearly killed him with it. I nearly killed my best friend, Duo!" His voice came out between sobs. Unusually, it was the turn of Heero to comfort him.  
  
"Quatre," he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, "we've been through this. It wasn't your fault. You were crazy with grief for your father, and wanted revenge on OZ. Trowa was just caught in the crossfire." Meanwhile, the braided boy stood up.  
  
"Hey, Heero," he said to the pilot, "do you ever wonder what side Trowa was on? I mean, first he was in OZ, then he was in their successor, the Barton Foundation." Quatre stood up suddenly and stamped on Duo's foot.  
  
"Trowa's dead now," he cried, "don't doubt him now, show some respect!" A well-aimed punch at the American's middle sent the boy backwards to the floor.  
  
--**--**--  
  
After what had been an anxious night with a unexpected thunderstorm, the three boys were surprisingly quick to go to down to the office of Madame DePlume. They had dashed in between the now more frequent downpours. As they sat down, the look on the psychic's face told them that she was as anxious as they were about the incidents.  
  
"I think I've contacted your friend," the woman cautiously said, "I'm sorry but I can't be sure, not without having a real name." She sat at the other end of the table.  
  
"I can't," commented the blonde, "I just don't know. He died without ever knowing his name...his parents...who he was."  
  
"That must be sad," the emotion she showed was quite synthetic. The curly haired woman had grown accustomed to showing sadness at clients' tales, even when she didn't feel it. "The person who I contacted said that they'd only talk to you, Quatre Raberba Winner. That is your middle name, isn't it?" This was greeted by an astonished acknowledgement from all three guests. "However, you said that your mother and father are also gone to the other world?"  
  
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure they'd be accustomed to speak to someone like you," the young heir explained. "They both learned when they were still young that in a high-class family, you often have to pass on messages to other members of your family. Trowa, however, it's possible that he'd only speak to me, this time." He picked up a cup of tea to drink from it.  
  
"There is one way I can be sure," the medium seemed uneasy to mention this, "if I have you three boys to think constantly of your friend, I can be sure that the spirit is the one we're looking for." The Arabian looked at his friends. Although he wasn't meaning to be manipulative, his friends never could resist his loving blue eyes. The woman didn't have to ask what their answer was. "If you'd follow me to my spirit room, please." She beckoned and the boys followed, led by the Arabian, and lastly, the American, who was unsure but after yesterday's events, wasn't going to go against the petite pilot.  
  
The room was small by length and width, but had a high ceiling. It was dominated by the large mahogany table in the centre and the Victorian fireplace at the far door. Although the room was dressed in reds and marroons, it was dark-looking. There were no decorations on the walls apart from a reasonably unpatterned wallpaper. The pilots were slightly unnerved at entering such a room because an element in particular made it seem rather sinister - there was no window, no light, except for three taper candles as a triangle in the centre of the large, otherwise bare table. As Madame DePlume closed the door behind them, the three saw just how dark the room was. There was barely any light at all. If you had turned away from the triangle of candles, and put your hand its own length from your face, it would have been a meagre outline. Duo shuddered slightly, involuntarily. What was it about this room that chilled him so much? The psychic gestured for them to sit at four quarters of the round table.  
  
"You need to sit close to the table. Link thumbs with yourself and link little fingers with the person next to you. That's right." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Sit with your eyes closed and think about your friend." And thus, they waited, each concentrating as hard as they could on their friend. It was a very long five minutes before anything happened.  
  
"Stay away, stay away," something was whispering quietly in Duo's head. He wasn't completely sure it wsn't his own mind at first, warning him that dabbling in the occult doesn't pay. As it grew louder he became sure of it's source. "Stay away, stay away," Heero knew who it was immediately. The voice was unmistakable. Trowa Barton. Or rather, the young man who called himself Trowa Barton. After hearing this definate sign, he wasn't sure what to do. What do you do, when one friend warns you to leave, and another begs you to stay? "I won't talk to you. I will only talk to Quatre Raberba Winner," was the message the medium was receiving. The words seemed polite, but the tone was unnerving. However, Madame DePlume was not afraid. She was used to these meeting with disturbed ghosts, and was quite content that she had fulfilled the spectre's wishes. However, across the table, to the west side of the room, there was an extremely different message.  
  
"Good morning, Quatre," formalness with a tone of discontempt. It needed time to get used to it, but there wasn't time. The blonde boy looked up, but still had his eyes closed.  
  
"Good morning, friend Trowa," it was unusual to talk to someone else in your own head. The Winner heir was used to giving dignified responses, even when they weren't entirely felt, but he still felt amicable to the spirit that once was his friend.  
  
"You're completely weak," it commented in a strange tone. It was if he was playing with his friend, a cat with a mouse.  
  
"What do you mean?" Politely, he retorted quickly. The Arabian had an idea of what the answer would be, but he wanted to be completely sure. If Trowa had any last wishes, it was his duty to complete them.  
  
"You're not strong at all, you always need someone with you to be strong for you, you couldn't hurt a fly," it kept repeating, over and over. Quatre snapped open his eyes.  
  
"That's not true!" He screamed. All he could see was a blood red room, with no windows, nothing, no door.  
  
"Pacifist! Pacifist! Pacifist!" Over and over, and over. It blcoked his vision apart from the red room, hio thoughts and hearing blocked apart from the repeating word. "Pacifist!" To the others in the room, he looked as if he had completely blanked out.  
  
"Hey, Q-man?" Duo asked with much concern. No response. "Quatre? You ok? Come on, snap out of it!" He looked into the eyes of the small blonde pilot. The pupils were accessively large, as though he had been drugged, but he had been watched closely that morning by his two friends.  
  
"Forgive me, Quatre," a large slap came from the Japanese boy's direction onto the face of the dazed young man. He seemed to come out of it a little, but he was still quite distant. The psychic apeared concerned. A trick well practiced, but it wasn't every client who walked out of a contact session trance-like.  
  
"I'd like to meet you on Saturday, about ten to four? At the Masion Grande hotel?" She inquired of the client's Japanese friend.  
  
"Sure," the monotonous voice quickly dismissed Madame DePlume as Duo put his friend's arm around his shoulder to support him. He slipped his own hand around the Arabian's ribs. The psychic sat down, and spent the next half-hour wondering if she should continue to persue this case.  
  
To Be Continued...  
  
--**--**--  
  
AN: Please review (again). Criticism will be accepted, flames extinguised. More coming next week! The final chapter is already written! And, I'll be running an 'interview with the author' chapter after the fifth and final chapter, if you want. Please send any and all of your questions to Lilly_fics@hotmail.com, and not AshLillymon@hotmail.com! Please state whether you wish to be annonymous or not.  
  
AshLillymon 


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